Deterioration of a Smile
by FortuneFaded2012
Summary: Katniss Everdeen has been on death row for ten years, but she's convinced she's only been there for months. Convicted of a triple homicide she must contend with her mental deterioration, glass wall visitations with her fiancé Peeta Mellark, and her impending execution.


**A/N: This story was written as a gift for LastLeaf in the Hunger Games Spring Fling Fic Exchange. Thank you to my beta FnurFnur, Ellenka, and MaryContrary82 for helping me through this story.**

* * *

Death. It's a terrible concept.

A black hole that you don't come out of. I've always had trouble believing that there is eternal life. How can there be? When your brain shuts off and your heart ceases beating, there must be nothing left. All I can imagine is an empty black space where people are stuck between two worlds; the one they came from and the one that isn't real, the false realm that we wished into existence but can never be part of.

I suppose I've always wished that our world was some sick twisted matrix shit. That I would die and wake up plugged into a machine, gasping my first breaths of toxic air. The closer I come to death, though, the more infinitely blank I feel. I'm adrift in this clouded blackness. It's abysmal and hopeless.

I can't remember the first time I realized what death was. As a small child I killed wayward spiders in my room, smothered ants in the sandbox, and watched as my father shot waterfowl for a midsummer meal. I can't pinpoint the exact memory where the word _death_ began to mean something. My life's been filled with a lot of memories surrounding it. Too many memories.

When I was eleven my prize horse, Mississippi Lady, broke both her back legs as I attempted a jump in the arena. Her bones were splintered out, mangled in grotesque flesh. That was the first time something or someone meaningful died in my presence. The actual accident was such a rushed blur. I must have blacked out at some point, but I vividly remember her crushing weight on my legs. I couldn't breathe. My chest was tight with stuck air. I remember my vision being foggy and feeling the immense heaving of Miss Lady's chest, then the strangled sounds of a horse in pain. We were one mass of pain, horse and rider.

That's the thing about death. Sometimes there's a lot of pain and sometimes it's too quick. Fitting, really, because life is that way too. There are varying degrees, varying levels of discomfort in the process. For instance, when my father burned alive in his Jeep Grand Cherokee; that was a particularly brutal nasty pain. Or at least I imagine so. That's one death I wasn't around for. When my mother died of leukemia three years later. That was pain too. That was agony we could all feel, slow and noxious. I felt it every day, and what I could not feel I read plainly in her sunken stares.

Today, my impending death just makes me feel empty. Yesterday, it made me wild with anger. Tomorrow? Who the fuck knows…

"Everdeen! Get the fuck up!"

If he yells at me any louder I might just split down the middle from the sheer force of it. When he's on duty, Cray is the holiest of dirtbags. Prim would flinch at my language, but you know what, she's not here to judge me anymore. _Maybe if she had listened to me like she should have, she would still be here. _

"You listening to me, Everdeen?" _Yeah I hear you, dickwad. _Johanna's already rolled herself off the bottom bunk and brought herself to a standing position at the end.

When I finally look down from my perch I can just make out the shine of the fluorescent overhead light on her bald head. They had to shave her hair completely after she'd been here a few months. I think I'd only been around a few weeks when it happened. She was ripping it up by the roots during her rage fits. They were sick of taking her to the med-ward, so that was the solution. Without her long dark mane of hair, at least she smells a little less.

Johanna's husband used to handcuff her to the curtain rod and leave her in scalding hot water that would eventually turn glacial cold. She's got the burn marks and flaky dry skin to prove it. Since she's been here she has refused to shower. They force her to do a light scrub down weekly, at least. I don't blame her for being afraid of a little water. I also don't blame her for stabbing him to death. It was justified, he'd physically and mentally abused her for over a decade. _Fuck him and fuck society._ At her sentencing, they said she was mentally stable and had a history of violence. She couldn't afford a better than C-grade lawyer like mine. Since her husband was famous, well to do, and they didn't believe her tragedy, she was tried as a cold-blooded killer. I wish she'd had the chance at something better than this.

"I haven't got all day, Everdeen, get your ass down here for roll call," Cray has that damned toothpick jammed between his teeth again. _I hope you choke on it, you bastard_. I grip the metal bars of the bedframe as I swing myself down to the ground. I stand two feet away from Johanna, facing our door with my hands outstretched in our typical "I don't have any weapons so move on to the next cell" fashion.

Johanna's been here two months longer than me. So she's that much wiser about this damn place. She's also seen a lot of freakishly bloodthirsty women come through here. She knows what a killer looks like, who they are, what makes them tick. She is brazen and bossy, a real spitfire who thinks I'm brainless most of the time.

Johanna is also the only person who thinks I'm innocent, besides Peeta Mellark.

* * *

My little sister Primrose is the only person who trusts every word that comes out of my mouth.

"Katniss, do you think Papa felt a lot of pain when he died?"

Prim's woven her thin fingers into the thickness of my hair. Her small body fits flush into the curve of my side. I'm too warm, but we both need this small comfort. The touch and presence of another person is worth more than the condolences and food platters we've been getting. I can feel her breath on my neck. It wafts up to my nose and I smell the latest sympathy dish, lasagna.

"No, little duck, it was quick and painless."

Nearly every word I've said to her has been a lie from the moment we heard about the crash. She'll forgive me someday when she understands. I untangle my arm from the blankets and press it around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

"No more questions, you need sleep. It's a big day tomorrow," I sigh as she nestles her face into the crook of my shoulder.

I forgot to close the shades before we got in bed earlier. The orange glow of the street light has settled angry lines over the walls. We're surrounded by a pattern of golden bars. I can't sleep unless its pitch black, but I've lost the energy to get up and shut out the world. I close my eyes anyway and try to ignore the images of my father's mangled truck. This morning I went to pick up the little of his belongings that had been scavenged from the wreck. A burnt case of cassette tapes and some of his construction equipment, that's what was left. Some junk he'd shoved under the seats. It had made me angry all over again. I didn't realize how much I needed something more tangible than that, until I was holding the burnt case in my shaking palms. I sat there staring at it for nearly thirty minutes, just sitting there in the driver's seat of mom's beat up Jetta.

"Katniss…" Prim's voice crackles as I feel a fresh round of tears seeping from her eyes and dripping down my skin. Her body shakes the mattress as she cries silently. I squeeze her so hard she sucks in a shaky breath. She's so fragile and I forget it too often.

My voice breaks as I crane my neck to kiss her forehead, "Little duck, everything will be okay. I love you so much. I'll protect you, nothing will ever happen to you."

Prim begins sobbing as I murmur comforts and begin to sing her one of Papa's old love songs.

This is my life now. Reassurances and lies.

* * *

Flickerman pulls me out into the hallway. He's too cheerful as always, greeting me with that million watt smile. I stand spread eagle with my palms pressed against the wall. He begins to pat me down, while Cray goes in to inspect the room. I always hate the pat downs. It's so invasive. At least Flickerman's on it this time, Cray is the one you have to watch out for. He cops a feel whenever he gets the chance. It's regulation to pat down an inmate with another person present as a witness, but these two nitwits never follow that rule. Johanna yawns next to me, rolling her eyes as I am declared clean. She knows it's not like me to carry anything.

"You've got a visitor, Everdeen," Cray informs me with a sneer after he has checked the mattresses and the latrine for any sharp objects. Johanna got caught with a shard of glass once and we were put in the detention cell for a month. _We'll never make that mistake again._

Cray's beady eyes peer at me intently as I stand back from the wall. He wiggles the damned toothpick between his teeth as he smiles, "Warden says you can take the visit. Apparently you've been on good behavior."

I turn toward Jo who has that steely look in her eyes. She always does when someone comes for me. No one ever comes for her. _Fuck friends and families_, I think bitterly. I try not to grimace at her, but I know it comes off that way.

"Tell baker boy that I say hey," she sighs as she re-enters the cell. She's trying not to be malicious. She knows how much this means to me, when he comes. We don't get these chances often, and when something goes wrong, the privilege is completely taken away.

Flickerman closes the door on her without a second glance. Jo stares at me through the small glass square. I hate leaving her alone like this. _It's hell in there alone_. Cray cuffs my legs and hands to walk me to the visitation room. I've heard that women on death row at some of the other facilities are never allowed to have visitors. Thankfully, the New Hampshire State Prison for Women allows limited visitation for death row inmates. I'm okay with the limit. I only have one visitor anyway.

The buzz of the hallway lockdown door startles me as it alerts the guards that they are clear for a pass through. I don't think I showered last week, it feels like forever since I've heard that wretched sound of the lockdown door opening. I shuffle through the next hallway and out onto the catwalk of C-Block. I hear a few catcalls from below. The rec area is open in the center of the blocks. Women are allowed congregation time for a few hours a day. They do more gossiping than recreational activities. There are fights pretty often too.

I don't get rec time, because I'm a death row. We don't get "play time" with the girls as Cray likes to call it. Frankly, I don't give a damn anyway because I'm not much for social gathering. I think Johanna secretly yearns for it, though. Her husband kept her pretty tight under lock and key. She didn't get to enjoy much before everything happened.

"Dead woman walking!" A broad shouldered blonde woman howls as she catches sight of me on the catwalk. A few other women whistle and holler, taunting me. I grit my teeth and keep my eyes straight ahead. Cray spits his toothpick over the ledge. I imagine it tumbling into the pit and hitting one of those bitches in the eye. It'll never happen, though.

"What'd they let you out for, 'triple homicide'?" Someone shouts as I reach the stairwell and elevator between C and D block. My nickname is less than savory, especially since I've gotten it for a crime I didn't commit. It does sort of have a ring to it as far as nicknames go, but I try not to associate myself with it. I suppose it makes me sound menacing, and if I didn't always have a double guard following me, I think that nickname would protect me from some of the women here.

"Owww Owww Owww Your cold shoulder hurts, dead woman!" The last shouted phrase is muffled at the end by the closure of the elevator door. We move quickly down the shaft. I swear these elevators were designed to reduce the time an inmate spends confined in a small space with an officer. It just seems so much damn faster than the one in the hospital where mama used to work. We reach the first level with a resounding ding and Flickerman ushers me toward the visitation room.

_I hate this room._ It always reminds me of the observation room where Prim and I visited mom at the hospital.

* * *

Mama hasn't left her bed since we identified the body four days ago. She's scaring me_. I hate her for it. _

I've arranged the funeral without her guidance. I'm eighteen, so I_ can _legally consent. It shouldn't be my job to do this, though. Hazelle's been helping. She refuses to take my "no thank you" and "we're fine" for an answer. Somewhere in the pit of my stomach I'm grateful for her help. I'm terrible with acceptance of support and even worse with receiving of charity.

The funeral director has tried to cut all the corners he can to save me the nickels and dimes. I could be bitter, but I'm just relieved. There will be a short service. We won't burry my father. Cremation is less costly. Prim wants flowers that I can't afford, so I made sure to pick some ferns and wildflowers from the forest. Gale brought a bundle of lilac branches woven with baling twine, so that Prim has something to place on the small wooden box. I didn't have the heart to tell him I'm allergic.

Between the Hawthorne boys and me we have a decent little area arranged in the backyard for the service. Gale's been setting up a small white tent with Rory, while I arranged the table and memorial. Normally I would want to help Gale with the more physical work, but my head's too foggy to follow directions today. Arranging things is mindless. I can handle that.

I don't want Prim out here until the last possible moment. So I've sent her to play with a friend. I know her heart won't be in it, but she'll manage. She can come home later, when things are better prepared and the small oak box isn't staring her down.

I spend longer than necessary setting up the memorial items that represent my Papa's short life. Pictures, his violin, the ferns, the flowers; my fingers rearrange them all mechanically until I feel the pressure of a hand on my shoulder. Gale always exudes more warmth than I think should be humanly possible.

"Catnip, it looks fine. Leave it," he urges. I see Rory straightening some of the plants up in the garden. _When did he go up there?_ I realize that they have the tent finished. It scares me how I keep losing track of the time like this. Gale must have been watching me for a while. He squeezes my shoulder once, twice, and then drops the hand to my elbow. I let him pull me toward the house by the crook of my arm.

I look up at the sky as we approach the house, "Looks like rain," I say heavily.

"Probably, but the tent should hold up, don't you worry," Gale responds as he scans the expanse. His eyes are almost the same hue as the approaching clouds, so similar to my Papa's.

"I wasn't worrying about it," I intone after a few beats of silence. Gale smirks at my response and shakes his head slightly.

The porch steps creak loudly under our weight and I have to remind myself to watch where I'm walking. It's been like this all day. One minute I am in one place, the next I have walked fifty paces and haven't felt my legs move. Hazelle smiles at us when we enter the kitchen. The gesture is nice, but I just can't manage a response. It makes my face twitch whenever I try to smile. She's stirring a pot of chili on the stove. It bubbles lightly, but I hear the louder sound of the shower running down the hall.

I don't know how she got mama out of bed. I must look surprised, because Hazelle fixes me with a pitying look and an explanation, "I got her in there twenty minutes ago. She hasn't come out yet, so I can only guess she's just standing there under the water." I nod mutely and turn my attention to the countertop where Hazelle has arranged more food than I can pay her back for. She expects a lot of people to attend the service. I know its right to have people here, for Papa. I just keep praying that I will be able to stand having strangers pity me openly.

"Katniss, why don't you go pick out something to wear," Hazelle says as she presses her palm against my cheek. I can barely meet her eyes. She's so strong. _If only I had the spirit for it_. She instructs Gale to watch the chili while she checks on my mother.

I only have one black dress, so it doesn't take me long to set out my clothing. I can hear the lull of Hazelle's rich voice as she coaxes my mother out of the shower. I force myself into the hallway to watch. Mama looks like she was being drowned, she's sodden and pale. She doesn't look at me as Hazelle guides her into my parents' bedroom. Something in my throat feels tight and I have to swallow thickly before I step into the steaming bathroom.

I press my hand to the water that has condensed on the mirror, spreading a streak wide enough to reveal my face in the fog. I stare at myself in the mirror and don't recognize the deadened look in my eyes. _Don't turn into her,_ I tell myself.

* * *

Flickerman leads me to my visitation booth. I'm not allowed to have table visits like some of the other inmates. Some women can sit across from their loved ones, touch them, even hold hands. I don't get that privilege. I'm too dangerous, or at least that's what my conviction implies. So I get subjected to through-the-glass interactions over telephone. I still remember the first time that Peeta came to visit me. When we'd both picked up the phones he had joked that it was like our childhood game with the Styrofoam cups on the ends of long string. Peeta always sets me straight when I feel overwhelmed. Meeting him for the first time, with the glass between us, it was terrifying. It made things all the more real.

Flickerman guides me into my chair. I try to adjust myself before looking up. This is the hardest part, looking at the man that still loves me after all this time. I slowly raise my eyes to his deep cerulean blue. He's smiling; I see it in the crinkling skin beside those big blue orbs. He immediately picks up his end of the phone, his grin growing larger. I reach my handcuffed fists toward my own phone and grimace when the metal clanks against the wall of my booth. Peeta's talking as soon as I press the phone to my right ear. His voice buzzes a rhythm that distracts me from admiring him.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that," I mumble as I look at his chest. He's wearing a brown sweater with a square patch sewn on the side. I know he's still pouring his money into that damned lawyer he's been talking with. Otherwise, he'd have something decent to wear.

He clears his throat and smirks at me, "I said I've missed you. It's been too long this time."

I nod, because days mean nothing to me lately anyway. My voice is scratchy and unused, "How are you, Peeta?" I admire his tanned face and long eyelashes as he presses his hand against the glass.

"I'm good. I've been better. This semester has been killing me, but I've got some new things worked out for your next appeal."

Oh right, he thinks that going to law school will solve my problems. He thinks he can make a difference. I sigh, putting the phone down on the tabletop to free my hands up. I press both palms against the glass. His hand is wider than one of mine. If I close my eyes I can imagine myself encasing his warm fingers with both of my hands.

Peeta presses a kiss to three of his fingers and raises it at me, a salute of sorts. I nod my acceptance of the only kiss he can provide me and pick up the receiver again.

"Peeta, when will you stop with the lawyers and the re-trials, the appeals, the whole lot of it – when?" I whisper into the phone because I know he will instantaneously reprimand my questions before the words have completely left my lips. Peeta frowns. I hate the way his nearly white eyebrows pull tight together when he frowns.

"Never. You know that," he grits out.

* * *

"Elijah Everdeen was a man who applied one hundred and fifty percent of himself in all aspects of his life…" I don't know who provided the words for the preacher's eulogy. The sentiments are nice. I wish I had mind enough to listen to it all. I'm blank though. I just keep gripping Prim's thin body and pressing her to my chest. She's sobbing so uncontrollably that I decide I need to take her away from the crowd. Hazelle was right in anticipating a large group of people. My father was a pillar of the community. I think I knew this many people would show up, I just didn't want it to be real.

I pull Prim's body along as I walk quickly toward the garden on the side of the house. Prim's nearly choking herself. If she doesn't calm down she'll start hyperventilating. I push her onto the rickety wooden bench next to the rose bush. I kneel in the dirt in front of her, my hands on her shaking shoulders.

"Prim, you need to calm down. You are going to hurt yourself," I say, too forcefully. She shakes her head like she's trying, but everything is just too out of control.

"Please, Prim, you need to calm down. Take a breath! Breathe!" I press my palms into the moisture on her cheeks as she takes a deep shuttering breath. It catches in her throat and I urge her to keep breathing, counting for her as she begins to smooth out her hiccupping breaths of air.

I pull her head onto my shoulder and hug her waist as she begins to calm herself. She looks up after a while, peering at something over my shoulder. I look back and see Peeta standing with his hands in his pockets. He's wearing dress pants and a dark button-up shirt. He looks hazy in the air. _Oh, it's starting to rain, _I realize. The drizzle is light and misty, but it could turn into a downpour at any minute.

Peeta steps towards us, taking his hands out of his pocket. I pull myself onto the bench beside Prim as Peeta kicks at a patch of dry grass and looks up at the sky. My heart hurts, looking at him. I haven't spoken to him much since the accident. He's called at least ten times and I have not returned a single phone call. I watch him chewing the inside of his cheek.

"Are you feeling better, Prim?" he asks. I see her nod out of the corner of my eye. Peeta smiles and reaches out to pat her head. He has always been so good to her.

"Do you want me to get you some snacks? Dad brought brownies," he offers.

Prim sighs and shakes her head. She hasn't said much today, and I'm concerned that she will be silent for a long time. Peeta finally turns his gaze back to me before he drops his hand from Prim's blond curls. I reach my hand out and grasp his palm, squeezing it half-heartedly. He sends back a double squeeze with more strength.

"Do you want anything? I know there are some lemon tarts too," Peeta says. His thumb runs a smooth path over the back of my hand. I don't really want anything, but I plan on forcing some food into Prim, so I decide I better take his offer. Maybe he feels that way about it too.

"Maybe a brownie will do," I say as I pull myself off the bench and beckon Prim with my open arms. She comes with me willingly, but I can feel her body trembling as we approach the house.

There are a lot of people milling about in the yard, on the back porch, and I can see through the screen door a large group congregating in the kitchen. I press my hand into Prim's back, between her shoulder blades. When we enter the kitchen several people come up to give their condolences. Peeta graciously pulls them away so that I can fix a little plate for Prim. I let her bring it to her room. Rory follows us, silently griping Prim's hand. I leave her to eat with him, hoping that he can coax some conversation out of her.

When I gently close the door to her room I turn to find Peeta waiting. Both of his hands have a small plate laden with food. He nods his head toward my room. I look at the guests conversing at the other end of the hall, uncertain whether I too should lock myself away. I know staying out will only overwhelm me, so I push my door open and swiftly close it behind Peeta. He sets the plates on my dresser and turns back holding his arms out for me to step into. I give in without question, pushing myself as close to his chest as I can. His arms are warm and sturdy around me.

He presses a kiss to the top of my head before whispering, "Everything will be okay, Katniss."

And I come undone in his arms. I lose myself so completely, I almost feel inhuman.

Peeta stays with me through the night. He forces me to eat at some point before he checks in with Hazelle. When the guests have left, he tucks Prim into bed and reads her a story. I can hear the soft undertones of his voice through the wall. It nearly brings a small smile to my face. Prim must fall asleep from exhaustion, because Peeta is back after only a short time. I watch him gingerly remove his shirt and pants. His strong back glistens in the orange streaks of light from the open blinds. Peeta cracks the window open before he climbs under the covers with me.

"I love you," he whispers as he folds me into his chest. I'm so broken that I can't say anything in return.

* * *

His face and voice are firm as he confirms what I always question, "I love you. I'm never going to stop until you're acquitted." I see the determination flaring in his eyes. I wish that I had the right to touch him. To hug him and hold him, to press my lips to his face and kiss away his promises.

It's mystifying how much he cares about me. He is like this with so many people, even perfect strangers. He can't just sit back and watch things unfold. Peeta Mellark needs to be an active participant in the world around him. He needs to protect people, it's his one vice. Sometimes I can't believe that we ever fell in love. He's selfless and I am selfish, the ying and yang I suppose.

"Professor Heavensbee has taken me under his wing. He's fantastic, a really thorough lawyer," Peeta starts telling me about the man who has been encouraging the silly thoughts that I can be somehow be saved.

"He's been looking at your case, the evidence, the way things were handled. He knows you're innocent. I really think we'll be able to turn things over if we get the right clue. He followed your story when everything happened, so he has the outside objective view too," Peeta explains.

When my small village was subject to national news outlets roaming around and everything about my life was driven into popular media it was horrifying. Most people avoided interviews and being filmed. Peeta didn't though; he proudly discussed my life and my personality with anyone who would listen. He stood by me and the memory of my sister. It was amazing how things could be twisted and uncovered that had nothing to do with the homicides. I became some sort of social pariah that could be analyzed critically by psychologists and experts who never met me. This man, Heavensbee probably enjoyed studying me like the rest of them.

"So basically, he thinks I'm a social experiment?" I spit the words at the phone. I feel terrible as soon as the venomous quality of my voice registers in my mind. Peeta doesn't deserve my hostile qualities. I don't want to taint our relationship with my hatred and bitterness.

Peeta winces and shakes his head, "No, not at all. He thinks that you're a pure person who was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time." Peeta runs his hand through his hair and over his face, rubbing at his temples.

He looks up at me finally, "He sees what I see." Peeta's eyes are sad as he watches me through the dirty glass panel. My hands are cramping, where I hold them at an odd angle in order to keep my grip on the phone.

The hard metal seat below me is biting into my legs. I wonder how disheveled I look to him. He has seen me in nothing but these prison issued jumpsuits for the last ten months. The bright orange color looks sickly against my olive colored arms. I've lost the tan that I had before I came here. I'm probably paler than I've ever been in my whole life with this lack of sun exposure. I guess they've been giving me vitamin supplements for the loss of the natural sun nutrients. They cut my hair to shoulder length a few months ago too, so I don't sport my usual braids anymore. It's hard to tie back sometimes. Peeta probably thinks I look feral. A pale, hollow, tangled mess of a person.

"What do you see?" I whisper as I stare directly into his eyes. There is pain there, but there is still that glisten of love. It won't let go, just like his heart.

Peeta pauses briefly before he quietly answers, "I see the woman I love, losing herself. I see innocence being shrouded by circumstance. I'm going to save you. I'll give everything I can to set you free. Even when _you _lose hope I am going to bring it back to you. It's been a long time and I haven't given up on you yet Katniss."

_Hope._ The synonyms for hope are courage, optimism, and faith. Peeta told me that once. I've never forgotten it. Maybe because he has always represented those things for me.

* * *

"Peeta stop!" Prim squeals as she tries to shimmy out of his grasp. He's much larger than her though, his arms are thick with bands of muscle that weren't there a few summers ago. He hauls her over his broad shoulder and carries her thin little frame toward the end of the rickety dock.

Gale is howling with laughter from his perch on the green camp kayak. Rory is swimming a few feet away and is trying to hold in his enjoyment of the show. He tries not to laugh at Prim's expense. I can still see the shadow of his smirk though. Gale has begun paddling his way toward the dock. He smiles broadly at me as I roll my eyes. I'm trying to fish and they're scaring all of them away. Peeta does a quick jump and spin, bringing Prim with him into the lake. Their bodies create a tidal-wave like splash over the edge of Gale's kayak. When Prim resurfaces she gasps for air and screams in frustration. Peeta is laughing as he whips his wet blond curls from his face. He doesn't have any younger siblings so he's always enjoyed picking on little Primrose.

Prim looks angry, which is really rather funny on her tiny features. She's turning twelve this year and starting to get that sassy preteen attitude. She glares at Peeta as she pulls her hands back in the water and creates a massive splash in his face. Soon, there is an all-out water war going on in the lake. Gale and Rory waste no time joining in. I sigh heavily and reel my line in. I'm never going to catch anything this way.

As I am placing my fishing rod against the oak tree by the end of the dock I hear the slap-slap-slap-slap of someone's wet bare feet on the dock. Suddenly, I'm enveloped by wet thick arms. I yelp as they lift me up and drag me towards the water.

"Did you think you were going to escape the battle?" Peeta says into my ear.

I shiver at the breath he expels against me. I could fight him on this, but instead I allow him to pull me under the depths of the dark water. Soon I'm splashing away with the rest of them, then attempting to dunk Gale under the water. It takes me, Prim, and Rory to get him under.

When we are all tired out we lay on our backs floating under the hot sun. I look to my side and smile when I see Peeta watching me. He beams back. We've been dating for two years now, if you can call it that. I'm only sixteen and I know this is all hormones. Peeta's nice though. He calms me and my parents really like him. Gale likes him too, which is important to me. I want my best friend to enjoy the company of anyone I bring into my life.

We spend the rest of the day eating food cooked over the fire pit and playing games. Gale's parents have owned this small camp forever and a day. From the time we were babies our families have been coming here and spending summers together. Peeta's presence is a new addition.

Peeta presses a kiss to the side of my head as he settles onto the bench beside me with his dinner. He presses the length of his body against mine as we eat in silence. I watch the flames dance delightedly in the slight breeze. When I've finished with my plate I look up at Peeta and can't help the jolt in my chest. He looks like he's made of flame. His hair shines in the firelight and turns his bronzed pale skin almost a soft gold. His eyes are dancing as he watches me. I wonder if I look like a girl on fire. I let him kiss me right there in front of everyone. Gale smirks at me over the flames when I turn back to the fire. He raises his eyebrows suggestively and I roll my eyes at him. I'm not one for public affection. He knows that if I've allowed Peeta to get away with it, then I'm feeling too comfortable.

* * *

"Ms. Everdeen, your mother has leukemia. Stage 4. She didn't tell you?" The nurse asks me as I stare blankly at her. _No, she didn't tell me. She hasn't been honest with me since dad died. _I want to spit that knowledge in the woman's face. Tell her my sister was only fourteen when our father died. She doesn't need two dead parents at the age of seventeen. This changes everything. I'll have to quit school. I'll need to stay and take care of Prim.

I remember that Peeta is beside me when he presses a hand into my shoulder, "Can you give us a minute?" he asks the nurse. She nods.

We rushed here from Massachusetts when we got the call that mom was brought to the hospital in an ambulance. She collapsed at her job as a secretary in a local doctor's office. Peeta's been attending business school and I've been working toward my music education degree. We left our apartment in Boston with one suitcase and a cooler of food from the fridge. We didn't think we would be staying here long. I feel the tears beginning to brim my eyes as Peeta presses his hands against my face.

"Everything will work out. We'll get her the end of life care she needs. We'll make sure Prim is cared for. We might have to sell the house, that's okay though because I know there are some places for rent down town. Maybe we can put school off for a bit," everything out of his mouth is "we" this and "we" that. I shake my head furiously as I close my eyes and let the tears begin to seep down my cheeks.

"Why the hell didn't she tell me?!" I bite out. I'm furious and terrified. I don't know exactly how to feel.

"She's been lost for a long time. Maybe she felt this was an opportunity to have a way out," Peeta whispers.

He presses his lips to my wet cheeks and holds me firmly to his chest. I collapse against him. I can't believe I am crying over a woman who hasn't paid much attention to me in the last three years. Ever since my father's death, she's been like a ghost in our home. She eventually got herself together, but she wasn't the same.

"How will I tell Prim?" I finally gasp out.

"We'll tell her together," he says.

"I have faith in you. You'll be strong for her and I'll be strong for you," he says as he grips my hand and begins to lead me in to see my dying mother.

"Did you know that having faith in something means that you have hope?" Peeta asks me as we step up to the door. I shake my head and look into his eyes. He's such a beautiful person sometimes that it almost hurts.

* * *

"Have you been getting my letters and paintings? I haven't heard from you in so long," Peeta asks. I nod and clear the thick mucus in my throat. Seeing him always makes my throat tight.

"Yeah, I'm not allowed to write back. Writing utensils are sharp objects and I'm not allowed to have those," I flush slightly as I say this. It's silly to think that I would injure myself or someone else. _Then again, they thought that I would when they found that shard of glass from Johanna._

"What if I sent you some crayons? Those aren't sharp," Peeta says. I laugh lightly. It's true, I could write with those. Crayons don't really offer much for weaponry. I snort at myself as I think of Johanna trying to yield a crayon at me like a sword. _We could have duels. Whoevers crayon snaps in half first is the winner. _

I smirk at Peeta, he's smiling at me softly. He hasn't seen me laugh in ages. "Peeta, thank you for the paintings and the sketches. I look at them every day."

He smiles wider and nods, "I'm glad."

One of the sketches he sent me is of Prim and I sitting together on the raggedy couch in our old apartment. Prim was reading a book and I was watching her. Peeta had sketched us from his seat in the oversized armchair. My sister was such a lovely girl. _If only she had listened to me…_

* * *

"Katniss, this place is a dump!" Prim groans, her eyes scanning the stains on the carpet.

"It'll work out Prim. We'll just need to fix it up a bit," I try to assure her as I place the last cardboard box of our belongings on the precarious stack in our new living room. She huffs as she crosses her arms and looks around the dingy room.

Prim's having a tough time with the move. She didn't want to leave our childhood home, but I couldn't afford the mortgage payments. Peeta wanted to offer help, but he has all those loans for school. I didn't want him to quit his business degree at University of Boston either. I removed myself from university and will be attending community college here instead. I need to care for Prim.

I didn't want to uproot her during her senior year and my apartment in Boston is kind of a rough area. So instead, we sold the house and put the money in savings for Prim's education. She'll be going off to college in the Fall. So this living arrangement should only be temporary. Then I can rejoin Peeta in Massachusetts and Prim can spend her breaks with us there.

This apartment was the best I could find for the price range we had. It does need a lot of work, but that will give me something to focus my energy on. Of course the weekends may be troublesome here as well, with the bar below us. I've already promised Prim that she can spend the weekends with Rue as often as she wants to avoid staying up all night from the noise.

Prim and I make quick work of cleaning the new apartment. Living down town is a lot different than living in the suburbs. We quickly adjust though. Maybe Prim adjusts too much, I don't know. Things start going downhill. Problems with Prim escalate quickly. She made some new friends, a rougher crowd for a girl who is depressed and experimental.

_She should have listened when I told her they were bad people. I should have been around more. I should have protected her like I promised._

* * *

My head hurts and Peeta has a concerned look in his eye. I must have lost track of the conversation again. It happens a lot nowadays. I flush slightly as Peeta eyes me warily through the glass panel. I don't even have to ask him to repeat himself; he knows I have no idea what he's been saying. I watch his lips move as he speaks into the phone.

"I said I have to go Katniss. Visitation hours are almost over," his voice is more distant. My head feels cloudy, clogged with the memories that keep resurfacing. I nod my understanding. I wish he would stay.

"I promise that I will keep looking into the investigation. I won't stop until I can put this execution to a halt," Peeta vows. When he makes promises like this I want to believe him. I want to have faith, hope, and optimism. All the things he stands for. All the things he represents. It's hard though. It's becoming harder every day. I wonder if I soon won't be able to feel those things at all.

I remember that Johanna wants me to say hello to him again, "Jo says hi." Her voice drips with sarcasm in my mind, _tell bread boy I'm waiting for another painting_. Peeta furrows his brow. He's never met her. He must know about her though. I've mentioned her before. She's the only thing that keeps me sane in that cell.

"Her lethal injection is scheduled soon. She's acting tough, but I know she is scared out of her mind. I don't know what I'll do without her in that cell. It's lonely," I tell him. Peeta has tears in his eyes. He's shaking his head lightly. Something about his face strikes me funny. He looks much older than I remember. The stress of this must be aging him.

"Jo was wondering if you could send us a painting of the meadow. I told her about it." Peeta nods and I see that a tear has begun to slide down the slope of his cheek. He doesn't cry often, so this confuses me.

A man appears over Peeta's shoulder. It's a guard, reminding him that time is nearly up. Peeta says something to him and hastily wipes at the tears on his face. I can't hear him through the glass, but his mouth is moving rapidly. He turns back and presses the phone to his ear and one hand flat against the glass.

"I'll see you soon. I love you," Peeta whispers. His voice sounds like its being carried on one of those breezes I used to feel in the meadow.

* * *

The meadow is lively today. The Easter Picnic has attracted nearly everyone from town. My Papa is giving archery lessons on the far end of the field. Mama's brought her famous rhubarb pie. Prim and I are dressed in our best dresses. Mine has an itchy collar. Plus, it has too much fabric around the knees so I can't keep up with Gale and the other boys. _I hate dresses, _I think angrily as I adjust the ruffled sleeves for the fifth time. Mom keeps telling me I'll grow into this. I don't believe her.

We started a game of kickball a half hour ago and the first time I went to kick I almost lost one of my patent leather shoes. Gale thought it was hysterical since he was the opposing pitcher. He removed his sport coat and tie hours ago. I wish I had the luxury of removing some of this dress.

Peeta Mellark is next to kick. He's a really sweet boy from my class. I think I like him best of all the boys on my team today, especially because he doesn't mind having a girl play. He's sort of chubby, but his round face is smooth and always happy. I can stand him better than I can stand Gale sometimes.

"Alright Mellark you've got this," Thom O'Malley claps his hands against his knees as Peeta steps up to home plate readying to kick a hopeful homerun. Peeta has a strong leg and even though he's still got a lot of that chubbiness he is pretty athletic.

Gale grins devilishly as he rears his long arm back and rolls the ball at top speed. Right down the middle line, it's a perfect pitch for a homerun. Gale's face falls as he realizes his roll was too smooth. I shift my gaze to Peeta. He bites his bottom lip in concentration just as the ball connects with his swift kick. It soars high above Gale's head and keeps rising over the outfielders. I brace my hand over my eyes to shield the sun as I watch the balls' arc finally begin to descend.

Peeta watches it as he runs past first base. He pumps his legs onward, reaching second as the ball finally lands on the small hill beside the creek. It rolls down the slope and plummets toward the water with Bristel Patterson chasing it at full force. Peeta rounds third with a triumphant smile on his face. He runs to home like he's racing an out, even though he's obviously earned a homerun. He reaches the home plate to a loud chorus of cheers. Thom's jumping around like a maniac, while Gale angrily kicks the dirt in front of him. He's a little bit of a spoiled sport.

Peeta is breathing heavily and there is a little bit of sweat collecting on his brow as he walks back to our makeshift team. Thom claps him on the back a few times with a rough heavy hand. Peeta comes to stand behind me, resting his hands on his hips as he continues to catch his breath.

"Good job Peeta," I say timidly. I've never spoken to him before. I catch him watching me sometimes in the cafeteria though. His face flushes at my praise. I've never really looked closely at him before, but Peeta Mellark has the strangest blue eyes. They're almost cerulean in color, a bright blue-green.

"Thanks Katniss. That's a nice dress are you sure you want to keep playing in it?" He looks down at the dirt stains I've accrued on the hem. I grip the folds of the dress in embarrassment. My reactions are ridiculous, _who gives a damn what I look like. There is no need to blush because of something that holy Peeta Mellark says._

"I'd rather play with the guys than have to participate in the baking contest with the girls," I tell him honestly. Peeta laughs lightly and looks toward the large set up of picnic tables laden with desserts. Mama's rhubarb pie took second place last year. I have no intention of following her lead. The brownies I tried to make this morning were hardly edible. At least I tried to please her I guess. Prim will eat them later, she'll eat anything.

"Maybe we can trade. I love baking," Peeta grins as he appraises my look of honest interest in the suggestion.

"I don't think I'm cut out for the dresses though," Peeta laughs as he looks down at my attire once more. His eyes seem to brighten when he laughs. _Don't you dare develop a crush on him Katniss_, I scold myself mentally. I don't have time for boys. I'll be fourteen next month. Mama says I'm growing up too quickly as it is.

"I think that anyone can dress the way they want to," I say.

Madge Undersee likes to dress like a boy and I think that's a fine idea. In fact I think it's an excellent idea. I also don't care about her preferences for sexual orientation. She can love who she wants to in my opinion. Maybe if we lived anywhere else but Panem County it wouldn't matter to everyone that she dresses differently or finds women more attractive.

Peeta must know what my internal monologue is ranting about because he looks toward Madge, the Mayor's daughter as we move forward in the lineup. He smiles as he watches her attempting archery, with my papa struggling to guide her sloppy stance.

"I think that anyone can be who they want to be too," Peeta says softly as he turns back and catches my eye. I find myself beginning to smile without my brain's permission. Then it's my turn to kick. Marvel's on third base and he's really itching to get home. I pull the folds of my dress up high as I prepare to kick. I grit my teeth as Gale hoots and hollers about my underwear and skinny chicken legs. The connection between my foot and the ball is a sweet kiss of death for the opposing team. It flies quickly over Gale and I race through first base as it finally hits land on the other side of the creek. My team is going wild as I round second base and Peeta Mellark is screaming louder than anyone. My face feels like it will split open from the wide smile I have as my foot hits home plate.

* * *

"What did bread boy send you this time?" Johanna asks as she looks over my shoulder.

I slide my finger under the flap of the large manila envelope and pull out a large sketch of the meadow with yet another letter. Johanna presses herself against me. We each hold one edge of the sketch, staring at the intricate details. Peeta's drawn the Easter Picnic, the year we became friends. I curl myself onto the bunk and cry for hours before I can look at it again. Johanna hums songs to me as she presses her body against my back. It's like having Prim in my bed again.

Johanna and I add the sketch to the wall above my bed. It's plastered with images drawn by Peeta's skillful hand. His eye for details is impeccable. Johanna loves hearing the stories behind each image. Though she tells me I'm brainless and silly for caring so much about it. I know the pictures comfort her too. It's like seeing the outside world again, only in small pieces.

For most of the next day I lie in my bed, tracing my fingers over the people in the meadow scene. I run my fingers over the tiny detailed bodies, the food, and the basket of eggs. I watch my father's image drawing back a bow. I stare at it so intently that I start to believe the scene is alive with movement. Then I cry some more. Johanna detests crying, but she still keeps me company in my dark moments. _Johanna won't ever leave me. She understands._

The next few weeks I read and reread the stack of letters that I have from Peeta. He never dates them and he talks about so many things that I always find a new way to look at the finer points. Peeta is an artist with his words, just as he is with his hands. He really will make a virtuous and articulate lawyer, _even if his heart was in the wrong place when he decided to become one._

* * *

Today is a terrible day. Johanna's been screaming her head off for the past hour. She's losing it. I would be too if my execution was as near as hers is. I already feel like I'm going crazy in here. Peeta's right, I'm losing myself. I hug my knees to my chest and cover both ears with tight fists as Johanna throws her bedding across the room. She is screaming so loud that the sound is ripping my head open, I'm sure of it. I can feel it splintering behind my ears. Like my skull is cracking into a million splinters of bone.

"Shut the hell up Everdeen!" Someone is yelling directly above me. My ears are buzzing loudly and their voice sounds stifled.

I open my eyes and unfold my body when Cray begins whacking the back of his hand against my shoulder. My head aches and my throat feels hoarse. I blink at his angry face three times before I register that I'm still screaming. I don't know when I started_, probably sometime after Johanna._ He shakes his head as he grimaces at me. He's smacking a large wad of gum between his teeth this time. _I hope you choke you bastard_, I think bitterly. He deserves it for groping women like he does.

"You've got a visitor, so you better straighten up. I thought you earned privileges Everdeen, don't make Warden Snow take those away," Cray barks as he pulls me to my feet and proceeds to cuff me for the long walk to the visitation booths. Johanna fixes me with a meaningful stare as I leave the cell. She's sorry. _I'll let her apologize later_.

I still have tears dripping from my lashes when I am forced into a visitation room that doesn't have glass separating me from my guest. Cray pushes me into my metal chair and tells me to "be good". I roll my eyes and bite back my remark as he clips the door shut. My visitor isn't really here for a friendly conversation, he's a shrink. I've met him a handful of times since I arrived here. His name is Haymitch Abernathy. His cologne smells like rancid alcohol and for a psychologist he sure doesn't do well with public relations.

"What do you want asshole?" I cut to the chase, because his presence is never really appreciated. At least on my end.

Abernathy's eyebrows raise at me as he pulls out his damned yellow notepad and a file folder with my name on it. "Lovely to see you too sweetheart," he opens the pile and pulls out a few sheets of paper. They're tests of course, to determine whether I'm crazy. "I thought I would drop in and check up on you," he says as his grey eyes scan my face.

"Bad day for a check-up doc," I tell him angrily. Of course he would come on one of the off days. I look like a fucking psych patient today, I'm sure. Unkempt, wild, and ferocious. I'm a caged animal.

"Every day is a bad day in here sweetheart," he says as he clicks his pen and scribbles a note on the top of the yellow pad of paper.

"Let's start with the usual. How are you feeling?" Abernathy scratches his stubble covered chin as he appraises my scowl. He waits for me to answer, smirking at me slightly. He's an ass like everyone else in this place.

_What the hell, might as well humor him._ "Well I feel like I've been hit by a Mac truck. I'm a mess. Sometimes I feel like I've lost whole days. Can't remember how many have passed before I'm being pulled out if it by tears," I feel dejected as I admit it to him.

"I'm deteriorating. Losing things. One minute I'm dreaming about a memory the next I'm talking with someone like you." Abernathy is scribbling furiously. When I don't continue he looks up at me.

"How long do you think you've been confused Katniss?" He asks me softly. I don't remember us being on a first name basis. That and the question itself catch me off guard. A new pain springs up on my forehead as I try to think about the answer. I really can't say how long I've been confused. Is it possible to know those kinds of things? I shake my head and release a heavy sigh as I look up at him.

"Almost as long as Johanna. She's been losing her days too. We were just talking about it last week," I wouldn't usually bring up her business, but I need it for a relational time factor. Haymitch stares blankly at me. There is a strange quality to the placid nature of his face.

"Katniss," he begins sternly, "Johanna isn't confused, she isn't tangible." I don't know why, but an intense anger flares up in my chest. How dare he diminish her like that? How dare he say she doesn't matter? That her pain isn't tangible. I bare my teeth at him and shake my head.

"Listen Katniss, we need to talk about Johanna. How long has she been around?" Abernathy jots another quick note. I glare at him. The pain is still hot in my chest. _Johanna is your only friend, don't let them take her away._

"She's been here longer than I have, what do you mean how long has she been around?" I grit out. My jaw is clenched so tight that it is causing an ache to spring up across my facial muscles.

"Well, does Johanna talk to anyone else? Has she ever spoken with the guards? They should know she's there shouldn't they?" Haymitch's voice is still calm, but his questions have some strange abrasive power over me. In the back of my mind I know that my anger is somehow irrational, but I can't quite recall why.

I'm about to tell him that she talks with the guards all the time, when realization runs over me like a freight train. Johanna has never spoken to the guards and they've never acknowledged her. Johanna has _never_ left the cell alone. She only comes when I leave. She _only_ talks to _me._ She keeps _me_ company, she keeps_ me_ sane…_she isn't real_.

With that realization the anger inside my chest becomes an inferno. I rise quickly and launch myself across the table. I intend to choke Abernathy, to strangle the words out of him, the words that took Johanna from me. I dig my nails down his face before Cray and another guard force me to the floor. The take down is so rough that my vision is spotty afterward.

I can barely remember the journey there, but when my clouded eyes focus on the doorway to the detention cell I scream louder than I've ever screamed in my life.

I scream until everything turns black.

* * *

Spending time in the detention cell is worse than my own cell. There are no amenities in here. Just the toilet and some soap. Even worse, there is absolutely no human contact. This means that I spend all my waking hours thinking. _Never a good thing when you're losing your mind._

I think about my parents sometimes, but mostly I think about Prim and how she died. I wonder what I could have done differently.

When my sister started hanging around Clove Tucker I knew I was beginning to lose the innocent little girl that I was trying desperately to save. Clove was a girl with influential tendencies and they weren't the good kind. She had Rue and Prim wrapped up in her shit before I could blink. It only took a few short months of me working night shifts and spending my days in classes for Prim to dive off the deep end. I knew Clove had a reputation around town, but I didn't think that Prim was in that deep with Clove's crowd. When I realized it things were too far gone and I'd lost Prim and Rue to the abysmal spiral of drugs and alcohol.

It took one phone call for Peeta to confirm that he'd do anything to get Prim out of the mess she was in. I never knew she had called him until he told me after everything exploded, after I'd lost her forever. He'd apparently been on his way to us when I had threatened Clove in front of the bar. I told her to stay the hell away from my sister. I told her that if she _ever _came near her again, I would kill her. _Bad choice of words I guess._ Never threaten someone in public.

I had spent the remainder of my afternoon trying to calm myself down at the local park when I decided that I should go home and check on Prim. Peeta was nearly an hour away when I arrived home to find my apartment door wide open. I don't always remember much about how I found them, but the scene itself is imprinted on my eyelids.

* * *

The bar crowd is lively tonight. The cover band is in full swing, so the music is blaring as I climb the steps to the second level. I walk past the other two apartments and stop when I reach the end of the hall. Our apartment door is halfway open. I push the door open all the way, expecting to see the living room ransacked from a robbery. Yet, everything is in its place. The house is unusually quiet. A soft breeze floats the curtains up so they billow out across the couch. Everything is gentle and noiseless, but for the steady thump of the bar's music downstairs.

_If we were robbed they would have taken the dvd player and the jar of cash over the fridge_, it would be sensible to do so I think. We don't have much else worth taking.

"Prim?" I call out shakily.

It's unlike her to not latch the door tightly, especially on a Friday night when the bar is particularly crowded. She knows the door sticks and bounces open if you don't pull it all the way shut. I wait a moment for her snappy reply.

There is no response. I walk into the kitchen and see a half-eaten sandwich still on one of our floral plates. My heart begins to beat more rapidly. I call her name again as I head down the narrow hallway. There is a strange metallic smell drifting up at me. Prim's door is ajar. I push it open and prepare to scold her about not closing the front door properly, but the words catch in my throat painfully.

Everything is covered in crimson. The walls, the bed, the carpet, and the window – all of it, saturated in a thick dark liquid. Someone's bright scarlet handprint is smeared across the glass like they were trying to escape. The bright streetlamp makes it glisten. I scream and press myself back against the wall as my mind catches up with my eyes.

My right foot sloshes in a sticky puddle behind the door and I scream harder. It's blood. Clove Tucker's body is slumped against the wall beside it. I know it's her by the jet black hair. Her face is unrecognizable, though. I'm stumbling backward again and then I'm falling, tripping over Rue's lifeless body.

"Prim!" I scream as I look around frantically.

My eyes focus on the shock of golden hair jammed between the mattress and the wall. _She was trying to hide, she's alright._ My mind screams as I scramble up. My hands slide through blood as I climb across the mattress and shake her shoulder. Her head lulls back and instantly I know. _She's dead, they're all dead_. I pull her body up onto the mattress and cradle her thin frame against my chest. I scream and cry until I'm delirious, incoherent, and manic.

A neighbor finally hears me.

The police come.

I can't explain myself.

* * *

_She's dead, they're all dead. _

The words of "The Hanging Tree" won't leave me.

I keep singing the tune over and over. My voice becomes husky with it.

Finally Cray comes. He doesn't appreciate the old mountain song. My father taught it to me when I was a small child. It only makes sense now.

"You need to shut the hell up you crazy bitch," Cray wrenches me backward. I don't have the energy to cry.

"Are you, are you, coming to the tree. Where they strung up a man they say murdered three," I murmur the words to myself as Cray angrily stares down at me.

"If you don't shut up, we'll have to gag you," he threatens. They've already stifled my voice, taken my testimony. No one believes me. No one listens to my words. I'll be dead like the man. I stuff both of my fists against my mouth to muffle the song. _I'll stuff it back inside and it will never come out again._ _Just like me, I'll never leave._

Cray beats my head against the wall a few times before he leaves. It is hard to tell, but I estimate a few weeks have gone by. _Peeta will be devastated that I've fucked up again._

* * *

"Upsy-daisy Everdeen. That'a girl, up you go," a cheery voice says as someone pulls me up by my armpits. _I didn't know I was laying on the floor_. Finnick Odair usually brings a smile to my face. He's my favorite guard. He has a slick humor that can really make you nearly piss your pants.

I'm not laughing this time though. "How did I get on the floor?" I ask him incredulously. He frowns at me when my knees seem to buckle beneath me. It's obvious that I'm weak and disoriented, even to me.

"Don't know, but you need to learn your sea legs fast because you've got company," he explains. _No one has visitation rights when they're in detention so this must be important._ Flickerman's false smile greets me in the hall. _Bad way to start a visitation day._

"Who's here?" I ask Finnick as they begin leading me down the hall. This block is decidedly more morbid than my own. There are miniscule observation holes on each door, rather than glass squares.

"Not sure darling, a bevy of men, I'm told." He smiles at me cheekily and shimmies his eyebrows. Somewhere out there he must have a wonderful life partner. God, that person is lucky. I don't think I've ever met a person who could bring humor into such a depressing place.

When they position me upright in my metal chair I inwardly groan. There are four men staring back at me, with varying expressions of interest.

"Well, the whole gangs here. Happy family reunion day," I mutter angrily as I pick up the phone on my side of the glass. Peeta takes the phone first.

"Katniss," he breathes my name like a prayer. His face is relieved and terrified at the same time. I didn't think the particular combination was possible.

"What have you done to yourself?" He asks. His voice is pained. _Oh right, I must look lovely today._ I smirk at my inner sarcasm. Who wouldn't look like a million dollars after solitary?

"I've been in detention," I say evenly. He frowns.

"Didn't Abernathy tell you? He's the reason I was there," I glare at the man over Peeta's right shoulder. Peeta turns and starts up an angry conversation with good old Haymitch. Affectionate names are warranted. _Why not; we're on first name basis now aren't we?_ The phone is passed off to the next person as Peeta and Haymitch appear to be having an argument. I sigh and close my eyes, leaning my head against the metal dividing wall beside me.

"Catnip, you look like hell," he starts, "I'm sorry I never came. I didn't want to see you this way. I couldn't…I just couldn't deal with it being like this."

"Well, it would have ruined me to see you anyway," I fire back, "It's hard enough talking to Peeta through this glass." I look up at him. His silver eyes are sad and I wish I could un-see it. I wish I could undo a lot of things.

"I'm sorry," his voice is choppy like he's holding back a sob. _Katniss Everdeen, the woman who brings grown men to tears._

"Don't be," I insist. He nods and glances at the argument. I can just barely hear the yelling through the receiver.

"Mellark still loves you more than bread," he says half-heartedly. I sigh and nod slowly. _I won't stop, _that's what he said.

"I love you too Catnip, we're still here for you," Gale winds his free hand around the cord of the phone anxiously. He appraises me with those strange sad eyes. _He looks old_.

"I know, you'll always be my best friend," I hope that what little words I can give him are enough. Gale closes his eyes and swallows thickly before he passes the phone back to Peeta.

"Katniss, this is Plutarch Heavensbee. My old professor and the best lawyer in the East," Peeta gestures toward the flashy man beside him, who gives me a curt wave. Peeta explains the work that they've all been doing. They've been pouring through old notes on my case, looking at every detail. A lot of facts and figures were overlooked. This isn't new to me.

Peeta grimaces as he finishes, "Without any new evidence and the failure of the last two appeals they will continue with the execution. I'm not going to stop until I find something groundbreaking, something that will rip this case wide open."

I shake my head violently, "Peeta it's been ten months. There is nothing new and there never will be." He looks taken aback for a moment. He quickly turns to Haymitch and they have a quick exchange.

Peeta looks at me forlornly, "Katniss, it's been ten years."

I stare at him. He's gone mad like me. "No, I've been here ten months. Two months less than Johanna," I insist. Gale is losing it behind Peeta, his shoulders are shaking as he cries. I have never in my entire life seen Gale Hawthorne cry. He is the strongest man I know. _What the hell is the matter with him?_

"You've been here ten years Katniss. You're just confused. Dr. Abernathy says that you are displaying the classic symptoms of Death Row Phenomenon," Peeta assures me. He is standing now and I realize that's because I am too. He's trying to calm me.

"Don't use that medical bullshit on me. I'm not as crazy as he thinks. I'm not!" I shriek.

"Katniss, mental illness is scary, I understand that. Let us help you," Peeta pleads.

"I'm not crazy!" I scream as I drop the phone and bang my handcuffed fists against the thick glass. Peeta looks horrified. _He's horrified of me, I'm a monster. I'm a mutt._

I begin to cry as Odair, Flickerman, and a guard named Boggs pull me away from the glass and try to get ahold of my writhing body. I continue to scream. _I'm not crazy_.

In the hallway a needle is jabbed into my arm by a nurse. They're sedating me. They only do that with uncontrollable inmates…

* * *

Johanna is gone when I wake up. I curl into a tight ball on my stripped mattress. They won't let me have linens. They must be afraid that I'll strangle myself. I struggle to remember whether Johanna is real or not. The conundrum only brings on more tears and body aches.

Days go by. My meals arrive, but I barely touch them. What I do eat is tasteless in my chalky mouth. My dry lips crack and my bloodshot eyes ache. Johanna doesn't come to keep me company.

Three men arrive though. I've never seen any of them before. They send me through the showers and sit me in a plain room for my last meal. I requested lamb stew, it's delicious. I can't remember ordering it. I don't think I have ever tasted anything like it before. They send in a Pastor after dinner. I tell him I don't believe in God. _What kind of God would allow me to be falsely convicted_? He prays for my soul anyway. I guess there isn't much I can do about that.

I can barely walk once I enter the area where the lethal injections occur. It's a pearl white room with glass windows for observation. When we pass the first window I see my reflection in the mirror-like glass.

"I look so old," I whisper. _Peeta says it's been ten years. _

I am strapped to a gurney. A nurse swabs my arms with alcohol and sterilizes everything out of habit. She inserts two intravenous tubes. One is a failsafe, in case the real injection doesn't do its job. There is a set of curtains behind me. I'm told that when they open I will be allowed to give my last statement. I hear the swish of the fabric after a few moments. That means that they've prepared everything and its show time.

I clear my throat several times before I manage to speak. I don't think before words flow, "Someday you will all realize what a terrible thing you have done, killing me. A woman who loved her sister more than herself and would never harm her or anyone else. A woman who has lost her mind here, unlawfully. Someday you will learn the truth about the murders of three innocent girls, who didn't deserve death. And one innocent woman who suffered for their loss, because I only have two people left to love now." It is the most I can ever remember clearly saying about the triple homicide. When I look up at the observation window at my feet I see Peeta and Gale watching me intently. Neither of them is crying now.

When Warden Snow declares it, the execution will commence. It's not long before I feel the cold drips beginning to seep into my veins. The room temperature IVs are much cooler than my internal body temperature. The injections are designed to occur in a series. That's what Johanna told me. First, it induces unconsciousness, and then it is followed by paralysis of the respiratory muscles and cardiac arrest. I stare at Peeta and Gale. I focus on them as everything begins to drift away.

* * *

It takes nearly seven minutes for me to die, but the last thing that I see is a glorious light. Within it, my parents and Prim are smiling at me. Welcoming me with their arms spread wide.

"I'm home," I say softly as Prim folds her small fingers into my palm.

* * *

"Five years after the death of Katniss Everdeen with new evidence in the brutal triple homicide that took the life of her sister and two young women, we finally have the true killer. Cato Alexander, a convicted felon has confessed to the brutal murders after new evidence places him at the crime. He attests that the assault was the result of a quarrel over drug money with his girlfriend Clove Alexander one of the eighteen year old victims." I can't listen to the commentary anymore. I quickly switch the power button on the radio as I pull up the gravel driveway.

Plutarch and I have already gotten Katniss' posthumous pardon granted by the Governor of New Hampshire. I told her I wouldn't rest until she was free, even in death. My next move is to push new laws in the state then federally, with the hopeful abolition of the capital punishment of execution. I don't want anyone else to go through what Katniss did. Innocent or otherwise.

I stop the car by the 20th row of stones. Katniss is buried beside her sister ten stones in. Gale and I made sure they both had a proper burial, unlike their parents. I step out of the car with the basket clenched tightly in my fist. It's hard coming here, but I try to do it once a week. The few short paces it takes to reach them aren't long enough. It always hurts.

I place the basket of wild flowers between their graves and sit down to tell them about the new conviction and the pardon, my plans to run politically, my hopes and dreams. I'll never stop fighting for Katniss Everdeen.


End file.
